Passed the muddy mirror once again,
Now settled slightly by the side,
A tiny desert on the mirror's bed,
The turmoil heaped to solid hills,
That glance upon their painted faces,
Clouds and tinted-brown sky blue,
Trees that dip into the mirror just the same.

Green slivers assemble into readable figures in the dark,
They seem to hop motionless,
Once,
Twice,
Switch:
And the gaping mouth folds into a line,
Hidden between the fluttering of an eyelid.